


I was never sure how much of you I could let in

by HistoriaGloria



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Attempts at historical accuracies, Author apologises as their specialty is ancient history, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical Temporary Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Implied homophobia, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:41:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25832215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HistoriaGloria/pseuds/HistoriaGloria
Summary: 'The man with the black hair and the full beard and the eyes that seem to hold all the answers to every question Nicoló has ever had, will not die.'Five times Nicoló could read the agony in Yusuf's eyes and one time it was Yusuf who could see it.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 8
Kudos: 98





	1. 'Distant and unfocused.'

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I really enjoyed the Old Guard and well... this is what becomes of it.  
> This was inspired by this [tumblr post](https://historia-gloria.tumblr.com/post/626013144556371968/fav-whump-eyes) and well, I couldn't help myself okay.
> 
> I do apologise for any historical inaccuracies, my historical focus is all before the fall of Rome I am afraid. I also apologise for any inaccuracies in regards to the comics as I have not read them, only about them.  
> Still, I hope you all like it!
> 
> Title is from Heavenly Father by Bon Iver, though I am a big fan of the cover by Twisted Measure:  
> 'I don't know how you house the sin.  
> But you're free now.  
> I was never sure how much of you I could let in.  
> And I'm free now.  
> Won't you settle down baby, now love has been."

**_1099, Jerusalem._ **

The man with the black hair and the full beard and the eyes that seem to hold all the answers to every question Nicoló has ever had, will not die.

Admittedly, Nicoló cannot die either. That has become clear in the last few weeks. No matter how many times he is struck down on the battle fields of Jerusalem, he manages to get back up. The first few times he thought it could a gift from God, giving him the strength to continue on this war, but after day after day of violent pain only to get back up again, he is starting to doubt that.

That and there is the man on the other side of this war. He carries a scimitar, a curved piece of metal which he wields quicker than Nicoló has ever seen anyone move with a blade. His own longsword, built for physicality rather than speed feels almost clumsy when he wields it against his undying foe. They have clashed swords for several weeks now, always managing to kill each other and yet meet again, drenched in blood, to continue this constant war.

The sun is beating down, on the blood-soaked battlefield and he has stopped, stood only among the dead. The heat of day makes Nicoló’s armour even more uncomfortable and he wonders why he is still bothering to wear it. It’s not like it matters whether or not it protects him at this point. He will just get straight back up again after dying. Before he can make a decision about actually removing it, somebody else moves on the battlefield. Stands up, hunched over in pain and Nicoló would know that silhouette anywhere at this point.

The man who cannot die.

Nicoló sighs, draws his longsword and swings it around in his hands. The Syrian sees him; he knows from the way his stance changes, pulling his own scimitar from the dirt. They move towards each other, the motions familiar to both of them as they duck and weave and clash their blades together. He looks tired, the dark-haired man, still covered in his own viscera. And honestly, Nicoló’s heart isn’t in it anymore. It’s hard to continue to attempt to fight and kill the same person over and over again, without any success. The Syrian’s face is hard, driven as his scimitar slides against Nicoló’s longsword, but he can see the exhaustion in those dark eyes. He mutters something in frustrated Arabic and Nicoló only manages to pick up the word _die._ His Arabic is basically non-existent, but he can understand the sentiment of _why won’t you die_ through the tone.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Nicoló hisses out in Genoese and the Syrian stops for a moment, drawing just out of the reach of the longsword.

It’s a risky manoeuvre. They both know that Nicoló has the ability to just kill him if he merely takes a step forward. It’s the first time the Syrian has shown any vulnerability at all and there is a sudden urge, deep in Nicoló’s gut, to make him pay for it, to step forward and run him through.

But he doesn’t. The Syrian sighs, wiping the blood from his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Yusuf,” he says after a moment, gesturing to himself.

“Nicoló,” he replies, inhaling heavily. He pulls the helmet off his head, casting it aside and letting himself breathe. Yusuf looks him up and down, with interest.

“Are you not warm?” His Genoese is heavily accented, but good and it surprises Nicoló. He nods but makes no movements to do anything his armour.

“The armour is unwieldy and I am not sure why I am still wearing it. It’s not like I need the protection anymore.” Their speech is clipped, both of them unsure how to interact. Nicoló is so very tired of war by this point but Yusuf is still everything he has been taught to hate, to despise, to kill.

Not that it is going very well.

“Why won’t you die?” Yusuf asks and it’s not the rage-fuelled statement from before, more an actual question.

“I don’t know. Why won’t you die?” That makes Yusuf smile, just a little and despite the blood on his teeth, he really is rather handsome. At the beginning of this war, Nicoló might have believed that Yusuf was a temptation from God, sent to lure him away from the light.

But now, caked in his own blood, having fought, and killed his man at least fifty times, Nicoló no longer is sure of that. He believes that everything happens for a reason and if his reason is not to kill this man, then it must be something else.

“I don’t know either.” Yusuf shifts and makes another risky move.

He sheathes his sword.

They’re still stood a couple of feet apart and Nicoló could kill him so easily now.

But what would be the point?

He has tried so many ways of killing him, from bashing his head in with a rock, to slitting his throat, to even dismembering him and every time, Yusuf just gets back up again. Nicoló takes a second and then sheathes his own sword, beginning to wriggle out of his armour. It takes him a few moments and Yusuf doesn’t help but Nicoló appreciates that. If Yusuf got only closer to him, he would just kill him, more out of precaution than anything.

He throws it aside, cringing a little at all the blood. Yusuf watches him, those dark eyes unreadable.

“Where are you from?” he asks after a moment.

“Genoa,” Nicoló replies, reattaching his sword to his hip but not drawing it. “How do you speak such good Genoese?”

“I was a trader before all this,” Yusuf gestures to the blood and the bodies at their feet. “It was a good language to learn.”

“Your accent is terrible,” Nicoló says, without any preamble and Yusuf laughs, caught off guard by him.

“Yes, but do you speak any Arabic?” Nicoló smiles and proceeds to curse Yusuf out in the most visceral way he knows which only serves to amuse the man more.

“Only that which I have picked up here,” Nicoló explains. “So, it is only certain phrases.”

“You are a strange man, Nicoló.”

“I could very well say the same for you.” Yusuf dares to take a step closer, apparently the one to push the boundaries in the odd little truce they have. Nicoló shifts, making it very clear that he will draw his sword if he must, but not doing so. Yusuf raises his hands away from his own weapon, the universal symbol of surrender.

“No more murder then?” he asks, those dark eyes sparkling with amusement.

“I think I am done with that for a while. I mean, I only killed you maybe 50 times.”

“57 precisely,” Yusuf replies, beginning to pick his way across the battlefield and Nicoló follows without a second thought. “Though, I think I got you 58 times.”

And because Nicoló is petty, he takes two rapid strides over to Yusuf, drawing his sword simultaneously, and runs him through. He watches as the man falls face first into the carnage below their feet and doesn’t feel anything at all. It takes only a moment for him to come back to life, gasping and choking the air. And that’s when Nicoló feels something, staring into those brown eyes, distant and unfocused as the man returns to life. When they blink up at Nicoló, he feels his heart thud in his chest. There is no guilt for killing Yusuf, no, only excitement that he is alive again.

“Now, we are even,” Nicoló says, offering Yusuf a hand, his eyes glittering with mirth. For a moment, Yusuf’s eyes are full of anger and Nicoló wonders if he has already restarted the killing between them. But then he laughs and takes the Genoan’s hand, getting back up again.

“Now, we are even.”


	2. 'Creased and confused'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, thank you all for the support on the first chapter, I really appreciate it!  
> I hope you all enjoy this one.
> 
> Warnings for some implied period-typical homophobia.

_**1234, Sicily.** _

They’re in Sicily. It’s fairly nice this time of year, somewhat peaceful, and Yusuf and Nicoló have seen enough warfare for the rest of their lives, though after the nearly two centuries they have spent alive, they are certain that they are not going to get the option to avoid it forever.

It’s just the two of them, with Andromache and Quynh travelling up the Rhine river through central Europe. Yusuf and Nicoló are taking a couple of years of breathing room after everything they’ve done together, at Andromache’s request more than anything.

They’re in one of Sicily’s many port towns, Syracuse, with its long history and the island itself had been back and forth between Italian and Saracen control, meaning that Yusuf doesn’t stand out in the way Nicoló had when they were in Jerusalem. The city bustles and chatters around them, moving on as cities are wont to do. They stand together, never quite touching, just close enough to know that the other man is there. Nicoló looks at Yusuf out of the corner of his eye, at the way that his brown eyes are alight with interest, picking over the market stalls in the square that they are in. The Sicilian dialect is a little difficult to parse, with Nicoló’s lack of affinity for languages. Even after over a century, his Arabic is poor at best, which never fails to amuse Yusuf, who could speak Genoese before he even met Nicoló.

But Yusuf always had a better mind for languages, and he is able to easily haggle a fair price for some fresh figs from the man behind the stall, handing a couple to Nicoló.

“Here,” he says, in Genoese once more, his eyes alight with joy. “They’re wonderful and fresh, Nicoló.” The Genoan doesn’t think he will ever get used to the way his name sounds on Yusuf’s tongue, not even after decades of hearing it. He takes the figs without question, his eyes soft and affectionate. Yusuf smiles, wide and bright.

“Thank you, my love.” Nicoló knows he will never get tired of calling him that. Falling in love with him came so quickly after they had finished killing each other. Yusuf is so easy to love, so bright and full of emotion, be it positive or negative. He takes a bite of the fig, relishing in the sweetness.

Yusuf grins at him and heads over to look out at the sea, at the expanse of beach before them.

“I would like to go to somewhere else soon,” Yusuf says gently, resting his fingers against Nicoló’s elbow, innocent enough that no one will notice. “I think I tire of Syracuse.”

Nicoló’s smile remains, small and relaxed as they stand together in the late afternoon sun.

“We have been here for a few years,” he concedes easily. “And it will be nice to leave a city without having to just run, I suppose.”

“We maybe should… I don’t know if you want to, but perhaps we should meet back up with Andromache and Quynh.” Nicoló sighs a little, finishing off his fig.

“It seems a little bit soon, but why not? Anywhere with you would be perfect.” Yusuf takes his hand, just for a second, a celebration of their affection. They stand there for a few minutes, eating their figs, enjoying the way the sun sets into the sea, turning the water a beautiful array of colours.

“I love you, Nicoló.” It still thrills the Genoan to hear those words, no matter how many times Yusuf has said them to him over these years. And Nicoló makes his first mistake. He doesn’t bother to check if there is anyone watching them before he leans forward and kisses Yusuf. He tastes like sea salt and figs and everything Nicoló has ever wanted. Yusuf’s hands frame his face, careful and affectionate. When the Syrian leans back, Nicoló doesn’t chase him, merely leans further into his hands. He casts his eyes over Yusuf’s head for a second and his stomach drops.

Because there is a man who has definitely seen them. Nicoló recognises him; the man who sells fish at the market. He doesn’t like Yusuf, doesn’t trust either of them, and now he is scowling viciously at the little display. His lover hasn’t noticed yet and that’s when Nicoló makes his second mistake.

He doesn’t tell Yusuf.

“Come along, dear. Let’s go home. Work out where we should go next.” They’re leaving soon, Nicoló rationalises. As long as they are out of Syracuse quickly, there won’t be an issue. And they’ll be fine.

Yusuf nods, unbothered by the suggestion and turns to head back into the small city. The fish monger averts his eyes as they go past and Nicoló hopes that it will be enough.

They head back to their little home and Nicoló forgets about it as Yusuf sings to him in the evening and feeds him olives and morsels of bread. It’s domestic and gentle, even as their swords sit at the door, ready for any issues they may have. None come and they fall asleep entangled in each other, as they have done for 135 years now.

Yusuf doesn’t sleep well, his dreams full of the horrors of the past and he gets up before dawn, leaving Nicoló in bed with a soft kiss to his hair. The Genoan smiles sleepily and lets him go. His third mistake.

It’s only when Nicoló wakes, an hour or so later and Yusuf isn’t anywhere to be found that he realises something is wrong. Everything is still in their house, all of Yusuf’s charcoal and parchment, his coin purse, even his scimitar and bow. But no Yusuf.

Nicoló tries not to panic. Yusuf wouldn’t have left without telling him, especially wouldn’t have left without any of his things. He couldn’t have gone to buy food, it’s too early for that. Even with his most restless nights, Yusuf would have come back to bed after twenty minutes or so.

Without really thinking about it, Nicoló picks up his longsword, grabs the important things to both of them and heads out.

He doesn’t think that they will be coming back to Syracuse any time soon.

It’s still early, the break of dawn only just passed and Syracuse is quiet. He picks his way through the streets, silent and stealthy as Yusuf has been teaching him to be since he discarded that unwieldy armour on the battlefields of Jerusalem.

There appears to be sounds from the beach, a scuffle and yelling. It could be the fishermen bringing in their early morning catches, but Nicoló doesn’t believe that even as he thinks it. He hurries closer, holding tightly to his longsword so that it doesn’t make any sound as he moves. He’s almost there when he hears a sound which he recognises.

The pained gasp of Yusuf when he returns to life.

Nicoló’s heart drops. If they have already killed Yusuf, they are in more trouble than he thought because now they’re going to increase the accusations of witchcraft. He can hear male voices, yelling in Sicilian and Nicoló understands enough to gain the main aspects of the conversation. The fear of Yusuf, the hatred of whatever witchcraft is keeping him from dying permanently, the anger as they restore to more and more drastic measures.

“You’ve already tried beheading me,” Yusuf says and he sounds exhausted, agonised. Nicoló notes the difference in the grammatical form compared to Genoese in the back of his mind, creeping around the edge of the market on the water’s edge. “It will not work.” 

“Silence, demon,” spits another voice, the fish monger, and the Genoan’s hand is drawing his longsword, preparing himself to leap forward. He glances around the edge of the cover he has taken, able to spot eight shapes on the beach, one on the sand. Yusuf.

“You can’t kill me,” Yusuf insists and Nicoló watches as one of the men slits his throat without a second thought.

Nicoló sees red.

Before he can really think about it, his longsword is in his hand and he is running towards the men, roaring in anger. He makes quick work of the first two, blade cutting through flesh without much resistance. Nicoló is trained to be able to overcome armour and these men have no protection against his fury. Three quick stabs dispatch another man and then there is a blade in his spine, but it doesn’t matter, he’s still alive. He whirls around and drives his longsword through the clavicle of the man who stabbed him. He turns back around, to the three men who are still stood over his beloved Yusuf.

“I would run if I were you,” he spits through the blood in his mouth. But the fish monger and his two friends are not clever. Yusuf hasn’t revived since having his throat slit and the fish monger drives a dagger straight down into Yusuf’s heart.

“Become dead, demon,” he says. Or maybe it is stay dead? Nicoló doesn’t really care at this point. He launches himself forward, vengeance the only thing in his mind. They are all dead before they can scream, before they can so much as touch Nicoló.

He drops his longsword, lets it fall into the soft sand as he kneels over Yusuf, who is still unmoving. He grabs the dagger and yanks it hard out of his chest, throwing it aside without a thought.

“Yusuf, Yusuf, my love, please, please,” he murmurs, in the little bit of Arabic he has managed to hold on to, cupping his beloved’s face. There is silence for what feels like an eternity as he stays there, holding his face.

And then Yusuf inhales, breaths coming sharp and agonised.

“Nicoló?” he murmurs and the Genoan stares into those eyes, creased and confused with pain, but so affectionate. “Nicoló…”

“I am here, Yusuf, I’m so sorry, my love,” he continues in Arabic, tears in his eyes as he presses his forehead against the other man’s, uncaring of the blood. Yusuf smiles, reaching up to stroke Nicoló’s cheek.

“No apologies now, my moon. You came for me, as I knew you would.” Nicoló gives a faint sob and presses his lips to Yusuf’s forehead.

“I think we may have to leave Syracuse now,” he admits and it’s enough to get Yusuf to laugh, so it is all worth it in Nicoló’s mind.

“North? I hear the Rhine is lovely at this time of year,” Yusuf says, with all the lightness of a man who is just happy to be with his beloved. Nicoló smiles, helping him up to his feet.

“Wherever you go, I shall follow, dear.”

Yusuf gives him a bright grin as he grabs his scimitar and heads on, towards the small boats in the dock. Nicoló watches him go for a second, relishing in the absolutely unreasonable love he has for this man, before catching up, ready for their next adventure together.


	3. 'Groggy and swollen'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I really hope that you continue to enjoy this! Here is chapter three!

_**1704 - Russia.** _

Russia is bitterly cold, especially in January and it makes Yusuf (known as Iosif now) complain constantly. Nicoló (known as Nikolaus) always indulges his whining with a smile. It is just the two of them, staying in Moscow until Andromache and Quynh return from their work in the Spanish and English wars. They had insisted that both of them leave after they were caught in a shootout with Dutch troops in Cologne, when a fair number of soldiers had seen the two of them get back up again after being riddled with wounds.

It is the most common way they leave places, any of the immortals.

And Russia was enjoying a boom under the ruling of Peter the Great, so Nikolaus had suggested Moscow. Iosif had whined but had agreed anyway. He would go wherever Nikolaus was, they all knew that. They are one. Nikolaus and Iosif, Yusuf and Nicoló.

“ _Nicoló…”_ The way his name is dragged out to be far more syllables than it is lets him know that Iosif is in a mood today as he shuffles around their little safehouse in Moscow.

“Yusuf, dear, has the fire gone out?” he asks, predicting the complaint in the bitterly cold home, despite the layers that Nikolaus is wearing. They are speaking in Italian, as they commonly do, the words still somewhat antiquated compared to what would be spoken in the country now.

“Yes,” comes the grumbled response and Nikolaus chuckles slightly as he heads into the other room. Iosif is curled up under about three furs on their small sofa, his dark eyes just peering out from his huddle. “Must we go out today?”

“Unless you want to die from starvation. We are very low on food because someone has been refusing to leave the house in this weather.” Iosif makes a pitiful sound in the back of his throat and Nikolaus can’t help but smile at how much he loves this ridiculous man. “I am happy to go alone, Iosif, dearest, if it bothers you?”

“No, no.” Iosif pulls himself upright, keeping the furs draped over his shoulders. “I want to come with you. I will put on some warmer clothes.” Nikolaus sighs as he watches his lover shuffle back into their other room. It amazes him that their hundreds of years together, he never stops being so desperately enamoured by him.

Iosif emerges a few minutes later, clad in appropriate furs for the bitterly cold weather and takes Nikolaus’s hand.

“There we go,” he murmurs softly, pressing a kiss to the Genoan’s cheek. “Let’s go buy some food then.”

They don’t live far from the small marketplace in Moscow and it’s bustling despite the weather. Iosif always did mutter about how amazed he was at how the Russians didn’t seem to feel the cold, until Nikolaus pointed out that Iosif had no issue with baking sun. They pick their way through the small stores, exchanging hushed words about what to buy, mainly because their Russian is passable but not good. They really don’t need anyone else staring at them as they hold most of their conversations in a mixture of antiquated Italian and Arabic.

“Nikolaus, look, maybe we should buy this for Andromache when we next see her?” Iosif laughs a little as he indicates a small Russian pastry. Nikolaus and Iosif have been trying to make sure that Andromache has tasted all pastry variations in the world and a fair number of them she has tasted before they even get there. Nikolaus chuckles and nods, handing over a few rubles to pay for their purchases, thanking the young woman behind the stall in his slightly rusty Russian.

“She always did like Russia,” he muses, moving over to the butcher’s stall with a smile. Iosif nods, sighing a little.

“Do you think they will return soon?” Iosif murmurs as they pass by a few people and his words are mainly in old Italian. Nikolaus shrugs a little, chewing slightly on his lip.

“I hope so. I miss them both.” There is something unsaid between them. They haven’t been separated from Andromache and Quynh in at least a century and whilst they’ve only been apart for a little over a year, it is starting to grate ever so slightly. Nikolaus smiles just a little bit as Iosif looks up at him.

“Just let things calm down at bit, Yusuf,” he mimics Andromache, drawing himself upright to further get across the point. “So many soldiers saw you kissing Nicoló when he got back up, Yusuf.” Nikolaus laughs, slightly surprised by his partner’s antics.

“She was grumpy after that one, wasn’t she? We could have been more subtle, I suppose.”

“You took ages to come back, Niko!” whines Iosif, just a little too loudly and Nikolaus glances around immediately, but no one seems to be paying attention to the antiquated Italian Iosif is currently spouting.

“I’m fine,” he assures him, as is often the way that these conversations go. “Now, do you want the rye or the malted bread?”

They navigate the rest of their purchases without much of an issue, keeping their conversations to a low mumble, aside from the times that they actually tested out the little bits of Russian that Andromache had been teaching them. Iosif is no longer whining about the cold, which Nikolaus appreciates, though he really is feeling the chill in his fingertips.

It’s then that they pass the tavern and honestly, a warm interior and some vodka sounds a lot more inviting than the twenty-minute walk back to their modest home.

“Drink?” murmurs Nikolaus and Iosif perks up.

“Why not? Keep us a little bit warmer.”

And so, with their purchases bundled to their chest, they take a moment to slip inside the small inn. Iosif heads up to the innkeeper, to order, with his slightly better Russian as Nikolaus finds them a small table in a corner. It has a good view of the room and the chairs are so positioned that they will not end up creating any blindspots for each other. Centuries of being warriors means that checking for exits within a room is always the first thing that any of the immortals do. Categorise any possible threats, all exits and now how to react when things indefinitely go wrong. The inn is fairly busy, with it being later in the afternoon by the time Nikolaus had been able to get Iosif to leave the house.

It only takes a moment for Iosif to return, drinks in hand.

“Here you go, dear.” He moves to sit opposite him, an idle smile on his face. Nikolaus returns the smile, taking a slow sip of his vodka.

“Do you remember,” he starts, slowly. “When you first saw snow?” Iosif laughs, leaning back a little in his chair.

“It was what, 1150s? Andromache and Quynh had decided that a really exciting thing to do with the new immortals was to go mountain climbing in the Alps,” Iosif reminisces, his eyes fixed on Nikolaus.

“You were so excited by the idea of it getting cold,” Nikolaus chuckles. “You liked the actual sensation a lot less. When it started snowing, you just… stopped. You just stared up at the sky and let it fall on your face.”

“It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. Well, aside from your face on a morning. Andromache laughed at me then, just stood in the freezing cold.” Nikolaus props his face on his hand, remembering the moment well. Iosif with his head thrown back, giggling excitedly at the first snow he had ever seen. Nikolaus doesn’t think he will ever forget the way Iosif had turned to him, snow in his dark curls and had said, “ _Nicoló, this is so much better than the desert.”_

“We should go back to the Alps,” Nikolaus says softly, taking a long drink. “When Andromache and Quynh come back.” Iosif nods, his brown eyes gentle and affectionate. He opens his mouth to say something else when there is a clattering sound from the other side of the bar and they both turn to look. There is the young man from behind the bar, trapped in the corner by several other individuals, babbling in such rapid Russian that neither of them can keep up. The poor man looks terrified and Nikolaus looks at Iosif. They are outnumbered, they always are, but this individual needs at least some support.

“Ah, gentleman, is there a problem?” asks Iosif, in slightly awkward Russian, standing up. One of the men turns to look at him and Nikolaus and sneers.

“Nothing you need to worry about. Just need to get some money out of this little bastard.” The young man does not look like he has the money to give to these men, his clothes threadbare and cheekbones sharp.

“And why would that be?” Nikolaus says, wincing as his accent mangles the words. The man frowns but responds anyway.

“Someone needs to make sure he knows where his loyalties lie.” And that’s all the information either of them require. The strong are picking on the weak. Iosif moves first, his eyes going dark and flinty as he storms up to the first man and punches him without a second thought. Nikolaus is there in seconds, moving to intercept another man immediately afterwards.

A full-scale bar brawl was not how Nikolaus had expected this day to end as one of the men land a solid hit to his jaw, sending him sprawling. But it isn’t like this is something he hasn’t done many times before as he struggles back upright, kicking out viciously at his attacker. Iosif seems to be doing better than him, able to drop one man completely as he shatters a bottle over his head, stood in front of the cowering innkeeper. Before Nikolaus can get completely distracted by how attractive Iosif is, dishevelled and sweaty, his head is slammed hard into the wall. He grunts, kicking out sharply to try and take down his attacker.

“Nikolaus!” Iosif’s voice sounds far away through the ringing in his ears, but he just scowls, dragging himself back upright. He waves a hand in his lover’s direction, to show that he’s okay before he returns to the fray, fighting vicious and dirty. He’s so caught up with dealing with the several men trying to beat him back into death for a short while, that he loses sight for Iosif for a moment. It takes him a few moments and a broken table leg, wielded like a club, to end the brawl. That’s when he sees Iosif.

He is slumped against a wall, blood dripping from his lips and Nikolaus’s heart stops. He hurries over, tipping his head back and exhales. Iosif is still alive, just a little out of it.

“Iosif, love,” he murmurs gently as his brown eyes, groggy and swollen, manage to meet Nikolaus’s own.

“M’still here, m’still here. Nothing too badly hurt,” he mumbles through the blood in his mouth as Nikolaus helps him upright.

“Okay, love. Let’s get you home.” He throws a passing glance around the inn, at the swath of destruction. The young man they had been defending catches his eyes and looks so truly grateful that Nikolaus just smiles and nods. They will be well treated here again and that is certainly a nice, but unusual thing.

“Are you okay?” Iosif asks quietly, in gentle Arabic and Nikolaus nods. The throbbing headache he had from being slammed against a wall is rapidly healing and that is a good sign that they need to get out of here. He grabs their groceries as Iosif gives the innkeeper a gracious smile, before heading to the door. The blood on Iosif’s face is beginning to dry, tacky around his broken nose which Nikolaus can see slowly setting.

They don’t stay around for the aftermath, hurrying back to their little abode.

“You have blood in your hair,” Iosif says, low and protective, as soon as the door closes. Nikolaus laughs a little, pressing his head against Iosif’s chest.

“That is unsurprising. The headache has stopped now, which is nice.” He gets a kiss pressed to the crown of his head and a sigh.

“Come on darling, I’ll clean you up.” They spend the evening fussing over each other as they are wont to do, but for the both of them, it is quiet, calm evening. One that they deserve. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come and bother me on [tumblr](https://historia-gloria.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/HistoriaGloria)! I am always here for a chat!


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